


Poppies and Tea; or In Which Mary Poppins Makes Everything Better With No Magic Whatsoever, I don't know what you are talking about at all, what magic?

by phoenixflight



Category: Mary Poppins - All Media Types
Genre: Coming of Age, F/M, Fluff, Homefront - Freeform, Hopeful Ending, Nannies kicking all the ass, but not really in an angsty way, character with dementia, domestic magic, female character focus, grown up magic doesn't sparkle, old mums being embarassing, the world turned upside down at war, wwi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-21
Updated: 2013-09-21
Packaged: 2017-12-27 05:04:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,759
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/974653
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/phoenixflight/pseuds/phoenixflight
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's 1915;<br/>Jane is 13 and in love with the soldiers. Michael is 11 and in love with the war. Mrs. Banks is struggling to be both a mother and work in a munitions plant, and Mr Banks isn’t sure how he ended up cooking dinner.<br/>The war has turned London and the Bankses upside down, and Mary Poppins, inimitably, sorts it out.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Poppies and Tea; or In Which Mary Poppins Makes Everything Better With No Magic Whatsoever, I don't know what you are talking about at all, what magic?

**Author's Note:**

  * For [hilandmum](https://archiveofourown.org/users/hilandmum/gifts).



> I have no first hand knowledge of London, and certainly none of 1915 London, but I have done research! (More than you want to hear about). The most interesting thing I learned was that Zeppelin raids were a thing - they weren't very deadly or frequent, but they shook people up when they happened.  
> Ultimately though, this is more about Jane's coming of age than it is about the war.  
> Also, wow, longer than I expected it to turn out.

“Blam, blam, blam! Bang!” 

“Will you cease that infernal noise?” shouted Mr Banks from the dining room. 

“Kaboom!” 

“Michael! Stop that at once and come down to breakfast.”

There was the thudding of footsteps and then a clattering in the hall above. “Father! Michael’s left his toy soldiers all over the floor.” 

“You’d better not have broken any!” Michael called, jumping down the stairs two at a time. 

“It would be your fault for not taking care if I did!”

“Jane and Michael Banks!” George Banks pinched the bridge of his nose as his children skidded into the dining room. “Michael, tuck in your shirt and tie your shoes. Jane, you are too old to be running around the house like an animal.” Jane ran a hand through her hair. Last night, mother had been too tired after work to roll her hair in rags; she’d tried to do it herself but the curls had turned out uneven and messy. “Alright, sit down.”

Michael looked at the table and his face fell. “But we had bread and canned beans for breakfast yesterday too!”

His father’s brows drew together sternly. “We are all making sacrifices with Cook and your mother at the factory all day.” 

“You’re always going on about the war,” Jane said, sitting down. “You should be happy to contribute.” 

“I just didn’t think the war effort would smell like beans,” Michael muttered. 

“I don’t want to hear talk like that at my table,” Mr. Banks began, but was interrupted by a muffled rattle of boots and muskets outside the window. 

“It’s the regiment!” Michael yelped, leaping up from his seat and running to the window. Jane’s chair left grooves in the carpet as she shoved it back and rushed to stand next to her brother, peering out at the soldiers.

“Michael! _Jane_!” 

“Coor, look at those rifles!” Michael whispered. It was March, and the daylight was still grey with dawn at this hour of the morning. The silver buttons and buckles gleamed coldly in the pale light. “Lee Enfield ten shots.”

“That’s enough!” Mr. Banks thumped a fist on the table hard enough to make the crockery jump. 

Tea sloshed onto the linen tablecloth. In the front hall, the bell rang. 

The children had frozen, and they both blinked at the noise, looking to their father. Running a hand over his face, George Banks sighed and got to his feet. “Stay here and finish eating.” 

When he was gone, Jane and Michael looked at one another and scurried after him, peering around the door into the hall. They heard the door open and their father gasp, but his body was blocking their view of the front step. Then a familiar voice said crisply, “Well? Are you going to gape at me like a codfish all day or are you going to invite me in?” 

“Mary Poppins!” Jane and Michael shrieked, tearing into the hall and jostling their father out of the doorway. 

“Yes, yes,” said Mary Poppins, tucking her umbrella under her arm. “Michael it is impolite to grab a lady’s sleeve. Are you two going to step aside or not?” 

The children shuffled back as she stepped inside, setting down her carpet bag. “Well,” she said, tugging off her gloves. “I must say I didn’t think I’d be back, but this house has been making such a ruckus I heard it all the way from Bombay. Ah,” she held up a hand as both children opened their mouths. “Mr. Banks, I believe you will be late for work if you do not leave now. The children and I will be perfectly well until you return.” 

Mr. Banks glanced at his children, who were practically vibrating, and at the tall woman in the severe jacket, and nodded, reaching for his hat on its peg. “Thank you,” he said weakly. “I’ll be off.” 

When the door clicked shut behind him, Michael burst out, “Were you really in India?” 

“Children should not ask impertinent questions.” Mary Poppins clapped her hands together. “Let me look at you. Oh dear, Jane, look at your hair. Well, we can do something about that. Upstairs, with both of you.” 

“Are you going to slide up the banister again?” Michael asked eagerly. 

“Whatever put that thought in your mind?” Mary Poppins said tartly. “Ladies do not slide on banisters. And gentlemen always offer to carry a lady’s bags.” 

Michael’s nose wrinkled up, but he gamely grabbed the carpet bag’s handle, squaring his shoulders to heave it off the floor, and almost stumbled backward. “Coor! It’s light as anything!” 

Mary Poppins was already sweeping up the steps, and didn’t deign to look back.  
~

Standing in the doorway of the nursery, Mary Poppins put her hands on her hips. “Good gracious, look at this mess. War and death are no reason to invite sloppy housekeeping.” She stepped over the soldiers scattered on the carpet. “Michael, what sort of captain lets his regiment fall to pieces like this?” 

She turned, surveying the room as Michael scrambled to pick up his toys. Jane, not waiting to be asked, hurried to straighten the mess of ribbons and hair pins she had left on the bureau the night before. Mary Poppins nodded. “Much better. Jane, do come here, we can’t have you going out with your hair like that.” 

Jane settled on the edge of her bed as Mary Poppins picked up a hairbrush, tensed for the normal stinging torture of yanking knots free, but in Mary Poppins’s hands she hardly felt the tug of the brush, only delicate hands on her scalp. “There. Much improved.” 

Running to the mirror, Jane smiled. Mary Poppins had managed to smooth her hair and pull it back without making her look like a little girl. She had forgotten how things went right around Mary Poppins. 

“Now, I daresay you two didn’t eat your breakfast,” she said clapping her hands together. “And from the smell of beans, it seems no one has been eating very well in any case.” 

“Yup, it stinks,” Michael wrinkled his nose.

“Mother is working at Westside Munitions and Arms,” Jane scolded “She’s very tired and hasn’t had time to go to the green grocer.” 

“Well we can do something about that,” Mary Poppins said briskly, “Never let it be said that I let any children go hungry in my care. We’ll go to the green grocer and the baker. Get your coats and gloves. Or don’t you want to go out?” 

“We do, we do!” They scrambled to get their coats and clattered down the stairs to the front door. 

Outside, the sky was leaden grey and the wind bit into the gap above Jane’s collar and branded her cheeks, but all down the street the cherry trees were blooming in a glorious riot of white and pink, joyous and beautiful, as if they didn’t know there was a war on, that the world should be weeping and solemn. 

Most days Jane felt that contrast sharply, but with Mary Poppins’ sensible heels clicking down the walk behind them, the cherry trees had it right and everything was going to be okay. 

Mary Poppins set a swift pace, shopping basket swinging on her arm, and the children had to trot to keep up with her. “Are you still getting bread from the Halbrights in Newgate?” 

“Yes’m,” Jane said. “It’s been hard with the submarines, though, not all the grain is getting through. Sometimes it’s hard to buy bread.” 

“We shall see,” said Mary Poppins, and that was all.  
~

The soldiers were drilling on Ludgate Hill, near the cathedral. Neat lines of them clomping and about-facing and ten-hutting, with their rifles on their shoulders and their buttons all gleaming.

“Look at them,” Michael breathed, dragging his feet. “Lovely and clean.” 

“I know,” Jane sighed, in a rare moment of solidarity with her baby brother. The soldiers had broad shoulders, squared back, and narrow waists. “They are handsome, aren’t they?” 

“Sure ‘nuff. Those barrels are just about gleaming! The wood all polished up and bright.”

“What?”

“Their rifles!” Michael exclaimed. “You gotta keep a Lee Enfield mighty clean ‘cause the mechanism jams so easy.” 

“You think their rifles are pretty?” Jane knew how her brother felt about guns, but couldn’t keep the incredulity out of her voice. 

“Better than thinking the men are pretty,” Michael made a face. “Blech.” 

Jane lifted her chin. “I just think it’s good to see our boys making such of good show, defending the free world and all.” 

“Janey likes the soldiers, Janey likes the pretty boys,” her brother sing-songed, far too loudly. 

“Stop it,” she hissed, shoving him. 

“Janey wants a soldier to ki-mmph!” Jane had lunged at him and exerted her sisterly superiority in the form of a headlock. 

“Jane and Michael!” Mary Poppins’s voice rang out, “Is that any way to behave on a public street? Roughhousing like hooligans, I never.” 

The children scowled at one another and shuffled their feet. Ahead of them, the dome of St. Paul’s loomed against the slate sky. 

“Don’t tease your sister, Michael,” Mary Poppins said, clipped. “Jane, don’t shove your brother. I’ve seen savages with better manners,” she sniffed. 

As they passed St Paul’s, the children were watching a regiment of soldiers drilling in the square. Only Mary Poppins looked at the empty steps of the cathedral and the swarm of hopeful pigeons. Last winter had been a hard one. Mary Poppins looked away.  
~

The Halbrights’ bakery was warm inside and smelled of yeast and fresh bread. Jane’s mouth watered, and her heart fluttered with the little trill of pleasure that bakeries always gave her. 

After Halbrights’ they stopped at the green grocer’s on Kingsway. On the way home, arms laden with potatoes and cabbage they passed a blackened, tumbled shell of a house, where a firebomb had hit. The shattered windows gaped like toothy maws. 

Back at number 17 Cherry Tree Lane, Mary Poppins took off her coat, and picked up the basket of carrots and parsnips. “Jane, will you help me put away the vegetables? Michael, do stay out from underfoot.” 

Jane followed Mary Poppins through the kitchen and into the pantry, where Mary Poppins began unpacking potatoes from the basket and passing them to her. She stacked them carefully on an empty shelf. 

“I wanted to talk to you about the soldiers, Jane,” Mary Poppins said quietly. “Has anyone talked to you about men?” 

“Mother said I always needed a chaperone because men have animal urges.” Jane felt her cheeks go red. “I didn’t know what she meant, and she said I would understand when I got married.” 

“Hmmm. You’re thirteen, Jane?” 

“I’ll be fourteen in May.” 

“It’s perfectly normal for you to be noticing a handsome man in a finely cut uniform. You enjoy watching the soldiers?” 

Jane made a minute adjustment to her pile of potatoes, not looking at the tall woman. “Yes. I like it, but it makes me feel... restless. Itchy. It’s confusing.”

Mary Poppins sighed. “The things people put children through. What you’re feeling is nothing to be ashamed of and quite normal. As you get older, people that you find attractive will make you feel that way. All it means is your body telling you that it wants to be close to them. Now Jane, listen to me, because this is important. Just because those feelings are okay to have, does not mean it is always okay to act on them. Do you know how a woman gets pregnant?” 

“Yes? Sort of,” Jane squirmed. “I know it’s something she does with a man.” 

“Yes. I wish people would be more sensible about it. You aren’t as old as I’d like you to be, but if I don’t tell you, I’m not sure anyone will.” 

“Tell me what?” 

Mary Poppins told her. 

“Oh. Oh. People actually...? Oh!” 

“But the point is that’s how babies are made, and it feels good,” Mary Poppins continued. “That was what your mother meant when she said you needed a chaperone. Young people’s bodies want them to be intimate in that way, but you know what happens to women pregnant out of wedlock. Do you understand? I’m telling you all this because you look quite grown up for your age, and the city is swarming with young men a long way from home. And it’s not just what you want that can be a problem. Men experience attraction too, and some of them use force to act on it, if the opportunity presents itself. It’s very important never to be alone with men you don’t know. You look somewhat stunned Jane, are you quite alright?” 

Jane sat down heavily beside a sack of onions. “I don’t think I like growing up.”

Mary Poppins nodded solemnly. “I know.” 

A thought occurred to Jane as she watched Mary Poppins put away the basket on the top shelf. 

“Have you ever been married, Mary Poppins?” 

Mary Poppins paused. Her back was turned, and Jane wished she could see her face. “No, child. I haven’t.” 

“Then how do you know all this? About men and their bodies and all?”

She felt Mary Poppins rest a hand on top of her head. Her palm was warm. “There are lots of ways of livings a life, Jane. You’ve only seen one of them, but there are so many others out there, on the edges of society. Most people never see them, but they just aren’t looking. Keep your eyes open, don’t be afraid of what you might see, and you will. You’ll see lots of things.”  
~

Dinner that night was late, after Mrs. Banks and Cook got back from the factory. Jane ate quietly, and even her brother left her alone, failing to get a rise out of her. Afterward, Mary Poppins shepherded them to bed, settling in her rocking chair with a skein of yarn and knitting needles to preside over the nursery’s bedtime routines.

Jane came out of the bathroom in her nightdress to hear her brother whine, “You haven’t done any magic for us, Mary Poppins.”

“Magic? What are you on about Michael?” 

“The magic that you do!” Michael cried. “Last time we went on all sorts of magic adventures."

“Are you sure your imagination hasn’t run away with you?” Mary Poppins asked, needles clacking. 

“I’m sure!” Michael wailed in frustration. “There was flying an’ singing an’ jumping through pictures ‘n’ all sorts. It was brilliant!”

“You’re getting awfully old to be going on about magic, Michael,” Mary Poppins said briskly. 

“I remember too, Mary Poppins,” Jane ventured, padding across the carpet to her bed. “There was a merry-go-round in the countryside. And we watched the sunset from up on the clouds of soot.” 

A very brief smile twitched and was gone on Mary Poppins’s face but Jane was sure she had seen it. Mary Poppins remembered too. She set her knitting aside and looked out the window, where the sky was darkening. “As one grows up, one learns that things one thought were magic aren’t special at all, and things that seemed simple turn out to be a bit magical. There are things one has to leave behind in order to go forward.” 

“Are you saying we’re too old for magic?” Michael’s lip jutted out. 

“Don’t pout, Michael, it is unbecoming on monkeys and inexcusable on young men.” 

“That’s what you’re saying isn’t it? That’s not fair!”  
“Isn’t it?” She sniffed. “I’m sure I wouldn’t know. I never trouble myself with fairness. There is only what is and what isn’t, until the wind blows in something new.” It was full dark outside by now, the city brightness and search lights reflecting off the low clouds. “Now, it’s high time for growing ladies and gentlemen to be in bed.” Getting to her feet, she switched off the lamp, leaving only the glow of ambient city light from the window. 

Jane settled down in her blankets, but lay awake, starring at the lace on the edge of the curtains, listening to the creak of the rocker. She was drifting, half-concious, when a distant, hollow boom echoed over the city, and she jolted upright, heart pounding. On the other side of the room, her brother sat up in bed. “It’s a raid,” he said, voice small. 

“A raid?” Mary Poppins went to the window. 

“A zepplin raid,” Michael said, voice small. “This is the fifth in the last three months. The king said on the radio that not many people are hurt, because the Germans can’t aim from so high up, but some people die anyway.” 

Jane jumped out of bed and joined Mary Poppins at the window.

High above and far off to the west, a zepplin drifted through the clouds, it’s belly pale faintly lit by the roaming search lights. Shells burst in the air around it from the guns of the London Air Defense below, and fire bloomed and wilted to smoke where bombs fell west of the city. 

“I hate them,” Jane said softly, fingers curling on the chill windowsill. “They look they great, hungry sea monsters, like they’re eating up all the good in the world.” Michael said nothing, but pulled his blankets more tightly around his shoulders. 

Another distant boom came and the windows rattled. Mary Poppins drew the curtains across. “That’s quite enough of that. Go lie down Jane, you won’t fall asleep standing at the window.” 

“I can’t sleep anyway,” Jane said, but she padded across to her bed and crawled under the duvet. 

“You will sleep,” Mary Poppins said firmly, sitting down in the old rocking chair, left from when the room really was a nursery. “And you shan’t dream at all.” 

Jane closed her eyes, listening for the next distant boom, but all she heard was the creak of the rocker and Mary Poppins humming softly, and then it was morning. 

Unseasonable sunlight was shining in through the nursery window. It was the first night raid that she hadn’t lain awake listening to the bombs fall. 

Jane sat up and thought about magic.

Mary Poppins was whistling as she opened the curtains. “Good morning Jane. Did you sleep well?” 

“Yes, thank you, Mary Poppins,” Jane said, rubbing her eyes. “Better than usual.” 

Mary Poppins smiled, turning away. “We’re going to tidy up around the house this morning to help your mother and cook. Michael? Rise and shine, no time for layabouts. You get to learn to scrub floors this morning!” 

Much to Michael’s prolonged horror, he did indeed end up scrubbing the kitchen and hall floors, without the aid of any magic at all. He did however get to take the rugs from the sitting room and the bedrooms out and beat them wildly with the wicker carpet beater. Mary Poppins and Jane stripped the linens off the beds and by the time they had finished soaking and scouring them, Jane’s arms were red up to the elbows from the hot water, and her shoulders ached from scrubbing at the washboard. 

For lunch they had hardboiled eggs and thick slices of buttered bread from the Halbrights’ bakery, which at least didn’t involve beans. After they had washed up, Mary Poppins sent them upstairs to see to their schoolwork. 

It was nearly teatime by the time they were finished. “It’s high time to get a little fresh air,” Mary Poppins said briskly. “Fetch your jackets and we will go for a walk.”  
The weather was colder than the day before, but without the misty damp. In a few places, the clouds had parted and blue sky could be seen. Clattered down the front walk, Jane pulled on her mittens and grinned up at the sky. She forgot over the deep winter how the world looked in anything but shades of grey. 

Behind her, Mary Poppins herded her brother out the door and locked it behind them. 

“I’ll race you to the park!” Michael cried, lunging past her. 

“No fair!” Jane yelled, taking off after him. “Head start!” 

As they rounded the corner at the park, they came in view of a familiar figure kneeling on the side walk, and they stumbled to a halt, panting clouds of steam into the air. 

“Mr. Bert!”

“Well, hello, ‘ello, ‘ello! If it’s not Jane and Michael Banks! What are you two ruffians doing out and about?” 

“You’re drawing again, Mr. Bert!” Michael cried. 

“Yup.” Bert clapped his hands in a cloud of chalk dust. “Finally three days together dry enough.”

Michael’s eye was caught by the vivid red of one of the chalk drawings at the end of the sidewalk. “Are you drawing about the war?” he asked eagerly. Then his face fell. “It’s just flowers and stuff. That’s not very exciting. You could draw soldiers and rifles an’ bombs ‘n bodies with no heads!” 

Jane trod on him. “Those are nasty things Michael, Bert doesn’t want to draw them. But he could draw the soldiers in their nice uniforms. Why the poppies, Mr Bert?” 

Bert rubbed his hands absently on his trousers, leaving streaks of chalky red, and gazed off over the rooftops. “Hardy plants, poppies. In the right climate, you can trample them, cut them, burn them, and they’ll grow back from seed the next spring as bright as ever.” 

The words made sense, but Jane didn’t understand the thoughts behind them. His eyes looked like people’s did when they were talking about the war, but he was talking about flowers. “That’s a grown up thing, isn’t it?” 

“Jane! Michael!” Mary Poppins came round the corner behind them. 

Bert’s face split into a grin. “Do my eyes deceive me or is it Mary Poppins gracing my poor corner of sidewalk?” 

For a moment, she looked surprised. Her mouth quirked upward, but she pinched it into a frown. “Have you remembered your manners, children, or are you simply bothering the poor man?” 

“Howd’you do, Mr Bert?” Jane said quickly. “Lovely weather. I hope you’re well.” 

“That’s better,” Mary Poppins sniffed. “Michael?” 

He scuffed a foot. “They’re awful nice drawings, Mr. Bert. Even if they are of flowers.” 

“Awfully, Michael, the poppies are awfully nice.”

Bert tipped his hat. “Thank you kindly young sir, miss. I am all the better for you asking after my health. I would ask after your chaperone but she is lovely as ever and I’ve never known her to be ill.” 

“Illness in the young is simply sloppy thinking,” Mary Poppins said tartly. “And how is your mother?” 

“Do old people have mothers?” Michael whispered. Jane trod on his foot. 

“Ah, she’s hearty as a horse,” Bert said, tucking his thumbs in his suspenders and rocking back on his heels. “Bit confused of course. Thinks it’s 1870 and the height of the Empire.” 

“I haven’t seen her in years,” Mary Poppins said, smiling. “Does she still wear that hat with the stuffed duck?” 

“Only on special occasions.” 

“More’s the pity.”

Jane and Michael glanced at each other. 

“She would love a visit from you, Mary Poppins. I reckon she’d know who you are at least.” 

“Well...” 

“Oh yes, please can we Mary Poppins?” Jane and Michael chorused over one another. 

“Please?” 

“I suppose, to pay my respects to your Ma, we could drop by briefly for tea.” 

Bert grinned and did a little jig step. “Let’s get along then! It’s past tea-time.” 

They packed up his box of chalks, while Mary Poppins watched, arms folded, and Bert lead the way past St. Paul’s and into the winding, grimy streets of Cheapside. It was not a place Jane had often been, but Bert was whistling and Michael was skipping along with him and Mary Poppins’s heels were clicking behind them, and Jane felt perfectly safe. 

Down a dim side street there was a flight of creaking stairs and a door with peeling paint and a tarnished brass number. At the top, Bert jiggled the key in the lock and held the door open for them, grinning like it was Buckingham Palace. 

The flat was tiny but warm, lit by the late afternoon light through a small grimy window, and a single oil lamp on a little table. By it’s light, a woman with white hair piled up in a neat Gibson, was clicking away with a set of knitting needles. Her face was wrinkled like an apple that had sat all winter in a cellar. 

Bert shucked his coat and muddy boots and went over to kiss her on the cheek. “Hello Ma.” 

“Hello dear, did you have a good day?”

“Yes, Ma. What about you?”

“I darned all your socks. Silly boy, you should have told me what a state they were in, Bertram.” 

Bert’s face sagged a little. “I didn’t want to trouble you Ma.” 

“Nonsense. Makes an old girl feel useful. Now I’m knitting a sweater for little Bertie.” She held up the hem of a sweater that was far too small for a grown man. “Do you think he’ll like it?” 

Bert swallowed. “I’m sure, Ma.” 

“He’s a wild one, comes of being your son. I’m sure he doesn’t get it from me. Have you talked sense into him yet?” Looking up, she caught sight of the rest of the group standing in the doorway. “There you are Bertie, just in time for me to measure this on you. Come over here.” 

Michael looked around in panic. She was beckoning to him. Jane just shrugged helplessly, eyes wide, and Michael reluctantly crossed the room to stand beside her. 

“Stand up straight, young man.” She held up her sweater. “My, you are growing fast. I daresay I’ll pull this out and start again with something that will give you room to grow. Now Bertie, I was just saying to your father that all this nonsense about being an artist must stop. You’re almost old enough to be prenticed. Get yourself a vocation.” 

Mary Poppins coughed and stepped into the circle of lamp light. “Jane, Michael, why don’t you run help Bert make tea. I daresay a hot drink will make everyone feel much better.” 

There was a sink and a pot bellied stove in one corner of the flat. Jane and Michael hurriedly joined Bert at the sink, washing out cups to use. 

Glancing over her shoulder, Jane saw Mary Poppins kneeling down on the threadbare rug, holding Ma’s hands and talking softly. 

“Look lively Jane, here’s the saucers.” The kettle whistled as Bert put a tray in her hands. He poured steaming water into the pot and set it on the tray. “Steady now, off we go!”  
Ma and Mary Poppins looked up as they approached.

“It is so lovely that you brought Mary Poppins to visit,” she said, beaming up at Bert. “I do believe I haven’t seen her since Victoria was on the throne, God rest her soul.” 

Jane thought Bert looked startled, but she was distracted by placing the tray down carefully on the rickety table so as not to rattle the cups. “Mary Poppins does us all good, I’m sure,” he said. “Tea, Ma?” 

“Yes. And who are your young friends here, Bertie?”

There was a common sense of relaxation as she addressed that to Bert. “This is Jane and Michael Banks,” he said, with just a hint of relief in his voice. 

“Pleased to meet you, Mrs...” Jane trailed off, uncertain. 

“Call me Ma, dear,” she said, laying a soft, dry hand on top of Jane's. “It’s good to see young faces around again. Thank you love,” she added as Bert passed her a steaming cup of tea. “You must tell me about yourselves.” 

“I’m eleven years old and I’m going to be a soldier when I grow up!” Michael exclaimed. 

“Don’t shout, Michael,” tutted Mary Poppins. 

“A soldier hey?” Ma lifted white and bushy eyebrows. “A fine career for a brave young man. In my day, joining the army was the best way to see the world. Africa, India, Australia, the Orient. The next world, even.” She nodded to herself and sipped her tea. Mary Poppins had seated herself in the plump armchair beside Ma’s rocker, and Bert had offered the footstool to Jane, so Michael stood awkwardly beside his sister. “Of course,” Ma continued. “Nowadays, it might not be so jolly. What do you think of the war, Miss Jane?” 

“Me? Oh, I don’t know.” 

“No, no, it’s no good how girls these days don’t credit themselves with half a brain. You think something about it, child, so tell us.” 

“Well,” Jane said slowly, “It’s complicated, I suppose. I hate the raids and the bombings, and it’s terrible that our lads are dying, and coming home wounded. I’d rather everyone were safe with their families. But the paper said that the Kaiser will conquer the world and make us all slaves of the Reich, and the war is saving the free world. So I don’t know.” 

“Ah. You don’t know for good reasons, not bad ones.” Ma nodded, looking satisfied. “If only more people would admit they didn’t know, the world would be a better place. And what do you want to do when you grow up?”

Jane just barely stopped herself from saying, “I don’t know,” again, because she suspected it was a stupid “I don’t know.” Instead, she said after a moment’s thought, “I’m looking forward to finding out.” 

“Hah! Good answer. Sharp one she is. Just like Mary Poppins. I used to be sharp,” she sighed. Holding up the beginning of a little sweater, Ma shook her head and said ruefully, “My Bertram’s been dead these last twenty five years, and my little Bertie’s all grown up. My mind wanders, you know. The only thing worse than growing old is being dead.” She laughed, a reedy huffing noise. “Perhaps I’ll turn this into a little blanket." Her eyes slid slyly from Bert to Mary Poppins and back. “When are you going to give me grandchildren, Bertie?” she asked innocently. 

Bert choked on a mouthful of tea. “Dunno, Ma,” he coughed into his hand. 

Ma tutted. “Don’t gulp, love. Small sips and you won’t choke.”  
~

Outside the one small window, twilight was falling thickly, and the tea was growing cold. 

“We’d best be going,” Mary Poppins said briskly, picking up the tea cups. “Jane, Michael, get your coats on. Don’t make us late for supper.” 

In the hall, Michael clumped around, re-lacing his boots and dropping his mittens, generally making a racket. Jane elbowed him hard in the ribs. “Hush! I want to hear what they’re saying!” 

“Who?” 

She jerked her head in the direction of the tiny kitchenette that was really just a sink and a cupboard in a corner of the apartment. Mary Poppins was setting down the cups, and Bert had sidled up beside her at the sink. Their heads were bent together, their bodies turned toward each other in a way that pinged Jane’s as-yet unrefined female instincts. 

Once Michael had stopped rustling and leaned over to listen too, the apartment was silent but for the gurgle of water in the pipes and the click of Ma’s knitting needles. Their voices carried in the warm stillness. “I haven’t seen her that lucid in months,” Bert was saying softly, face earnest. “I had no idea she knew there was a war on. I mean it Mary, you’re a miracle worker. Don’t look at me like that, we both know there’s no one in the wide world like you.”

There was a strange expression on Mary Poppins’s face, mouth turned down in a familiar disbelieving frown, but her eyes were crinkled upwards. “I’m prefer children to the old and sick; they make me feel nihilistic.”

Jane didn’t know what that meant but Bert grinned. “You haven’t a nihilist’s bone in your body. It’s my favorite thing about you.”

Mary Poppins’s lips twitched. “Yes, it is generally a passing affliction with me.” 

“You are the most hopeful, determined, purposeful person I know,” Bert said, his voice softening, so the children leaned forward to hear. “You make life brighter, more...” 

“Don’t say magical.” 

He shook his head. “More real, just by being there.” 

Something crossed her face, a flicker of her eyes, an unhappy little moue of her mouth, but when she smiled it was bright and genuine. “I always said you bring out the best in me, Bert.” 

“It’s the least I can do, Mary Poppins.” 

“I’m glad I got to visit Ma,” she said, straightening up a little. “Still, one never knows. I might see her again before she goes.” Jane almost missed it- they were standing close together- but Mary Poppins laid her hand on Bert’s forearm, just below his rolled up sleeves, and he put his big hand on top of hers, knuckles shifting as he squeezed gently.

“Don’t stay away too long.” 

Mary Poppins just smiled fondly and nodded. They stepped apart and Jane hurriedly busied herself with her gloves. “Until next time,” she heard Mary Poppins say.  
~

Out on the street, the wind had picked up, biting under a muffler, and in the gaps between mittens and sleeves. By the time they reached Number 17 Cherry Tree Lane their ears and noses were nipped red with the cold. 

As soon as the door was opened they could hear voices in the sitting room, urgent and worried. “Run put your coats away,” Mary Poppins said, leaving them in the hall and clicking across the marble to the sitting room. 

Jane and Michael, glancing at each other, pulled off their mittens and jackets slowly, straining to hear the conversation in the adjoining room. 

“...just talking about dinner,” their father said. “Got a telegram this afternoon. Terrible business. Cook’s nephew is missing in action – she took leave to look after her sister.”

Mary Poppins clicked her tongue. “I do hope she can give her sister some comfort.” 

Their father coughed. “Yes, of course. It does make things rather difficult for us.” 

“Of course we’ll get dinner on the table,” Mrs. Banks said firmly. 

“Of course,” Mary Poppins said. “Well, the children and I will come down to help you once they’ve washed up.” 

“Good.” There was a definite tone of relief in their mother’s voice. “I’ve never done much cooking.” 

Footsteps clacked on the floor, approaching the door, and the children scrambling away from it.

When they had put their coats away, under Mary Poppins’s stern gaze, which said quite plainly, “I know you were listening,” they followed her down to the kitchen. 

It was a bright, clean room, with a tiled floor and copper bowls hanging above the stove.

Their mother had managed to spill flour all across the counter top, and was working vigorously at a ball of dough. Her hair was tied back in a messy knot and there were dark circles under her eyes. “We’ll have fresh bread for dinner.” 

Mary Poppins raised her eyebrows, but said nothing. 

“What can we do to help, mum?” Jane asked. 

“Will you chop some potatoes and carrots? There’s no meat, but we’ll have a vegetable soup. And parsnips. Turnips? The round red ones.”

“Michael, why don’t you put some water on to boil,” Mary Poppins suggested quietly. “Jane, tuck your fingers in when you use a knife. I will get some radishes from the pantry.”

Mrs. Banks was carefully rolling small balls of dough and placing them on a baking tray. “Thank you so much, Mary Poppins, I don’t think I could do this on my own! How long do you think these will take?” 

“Oh, about twenty minutes, probably.” 

“Really? Oh, Michael!” 

Michael, not strong enough to hold the big steel pot when it was filled with water, had let it slip out of his grasp and spilled a wave of water across the tiles. “I’m sorry mum! My fingers slipped!” 

Mrs. Banks took a deep breath and stepped carefully through the puddle to the sink. “Let’s refill this.” 

Once the water was on the stove with most of the irregularly chopped vegetables thrown in, Mrs. Banks left the children to mind the kitchen and sank down on a dining room chair. “I’m so tired, Mary Poppins.” 

“Your family will get fed tonight, Winifred,” Mary Poppins said gently. “You are doing very well for a beginner.” 

“It’s this ruddy war. Everything’s gone to pieces. At the factory we’re always getting word that someone or other has lost a brother or a son or a husband. It’s wonderful that women are getting paid a fair wage and doing meaningful work, but then to come home and see to the children, and do the cooking-” she broke off and covered her face with her hands, leaving streaks of flour on her cheeks. “I don’t know how I’ll manage if Cook stays away long.” 

“You have both your children and a loving husband to help you. There are so many women in Britain who will never have that again.” 

“I know,” Winifred Banks sighed. “I know I have more blessings than I can count. I’m just so tired.” 

Mary Poppins nodded. “This is a tired time in the world.” 

“Yes. Yes, it is, isn’t it?” 

“Mum!” Jane shouted from the kitchen. “I think something’s burning,” 

“What!” Mrs. Banks leapt to her feet, rushed into the kitchen and almost slipped in the puddle of floury water on the floor. She barely caught herself on the edge of the counter. Behind her, the pot boiled over with a hiss and Mrs. Banks rushed to it. 

She poked at the carrots and potatoes with a fork. “They’re all but falling apart! They’ll never do for soup now!” 

“I’m hungry,” Michael complained. 

“Then help me by getting the plates on the table,” their mother said shortly, opening a cupboard and lifting down a stack of dishware. 

Jane had cracked the oven, letting out a stench of burnt flour. “What’s wrong with the bread? It’s all flat!” 

Mrs. Banks turned around sharply and the plate on top of the stack slipped off of its brethren in a bid for freedom and shattered on the polished stone floor. Mrs. Banks blinked down at it for a silent instant, and then her face crumpled. To Jane’s profound existential horror, her mother began to cry, clutching the rest of the plates to her chest. They were deep, shuddering sobs that made her shoulders shake. Her face was red and scrunched and tears glistened at the corners of her eyes. 

Jane and Michael were standing shocked and silent. 

Mary Poppins gently took the stack of plates from her and set them aside on the counter. “Michael, you heard your mother. Go set the table. Jane, please turn the oven off.” 

Winifred put a trembling hand over her mouth. “I’m t-terribly sorry,” she gasped. “I don’t know what’s cuh-come over me." 

Mary Poppins bent down and held up the plate, not so much as cracked. “No harm done, Mrs. Banks,” she said briskly. “Why don’t you go and have a seat in the dining room. We’ll handle dinner. Oh and send your husband in to help us would you?” 

When she had been ushered out, Mary Poppins wiped her hands on her apron and then set them on her hips. “Are the loaves badly burned?” 

Jane shook her head reluctantly. “No, they’re a bit black at the edges, but mostly, they’re just very... flat.” 

Mary Poppins sighed. “I suppose your mother has never made bread before. If one day, you find yourself making bread, please remember it needs time to rise it before you put it in the oven. Ah, Mr. Banks.” 

Mr. Banks looked around uncomfortably. The kitchen was not a domain he felt confident in, and his wife was crying in the dining room. The order of the world was in turmoil. “What can I do to help?” 

“To start, take that pot off the stove and pour the water off. Jane, help him hold the lid while he pours. Michael, there you are, don’t dawdle. Please go to the pantry and tell me what we have.” 

There was the splatter of water in porcelain and a rush of steam as Mr. Banks tipped the pot of vegetables into the sink, and the wet plop of a few potatoes escaping. Michael poked his head into the kitchen from the walk in pantry. “There’s flour and sugar, and some potatoes and carrots and lots of dried leaves, and sacks of beans and peas. And shrivelly onions.” 

Mary Poppins tapped her toe on the tile. “Bring an onion and some of the potatoes and carrots and a scoop of the peas. Jane, please look through the drawers. There should be a egg beater somewhere. Do you know what that looks like?” 

“Yes,” Jane called, clattering through drawers. 

“Since the vegetables got overcooked, the best way to eat them is mashed up together. Michael,” Mary Poppins sniffed, “What are you doing to your clothing?” 

Michael had untucked his shirt and had it held out in front of him by the hem, making a shallow bowl, brimming with split peas. “Had to carry them,” he said cheerfully. 

Mary Poppins waved this away, as Mr Banks glowered at his son abusing a good linen shirt. Stretching up, she pulled a large pot down from the shelf above the stove. “Toss them in here Michael. Mr. Banks, would you please wash and chop the carrots and potatoes that Michael has tucked under his arms? No soap, just scrub the outside with the brush on the drain-board.” 

“We don’t have time to cook all that,” Jane frowned. “I’m awfully hungry.”

“No Jane, this is split-pea soup for your dinner and supper tomorrow. Best to prepare ahead at times like these. Thank you Michael, please tuck your shirt back in and then you can help your father.”

Jane eyed the tray of sad, flat loaves that had been pulled hastily out of the oven. “The bread is still awfully flat.” 

“Nothing to be done about that,” Mary Poppins said briskly. “In India they eat bread without yeast at every meal. Tonight we will be Overseas Citizens, in the mountains, perhaps. It’s far too cold to be Bombay.” 

Michael whooped, at the sink, spraying water around as he threw his hands in the air and did a dance. “Riding into the wilds with sabers flying!” 

“Sabers gleaming,” Jane corrected. “It’s colors that fly.” 

“Michael, I’m going to teach you how to use a knife, but the first rule is that kitchen knives are never to be used as toy weapons. They are sharp and could seriously hurt someone. Mr. Banks, why don’t you come watch?” 

Mary Poppins watched closely as Michael and Mr Banks chopped vegetables, while Jane mashed the soggy potatoes and carrots. When Mary Poppins came over to check on her, Jane whispered, “I don’t think my father knew how to use a knife either.” 

“Of course not,” Mary Poppins replied softly. “That’s why he’s learning. Sufferage isn’t just about votes for women, you know. It’s about cooking for men, too. But don’t let them hear it. Men are best guided gently, so they don’t realize they’re being led.” 

The mashed carrots and potatoes were scraped into a serving bowl and the flatbread set out on a plate. Tomorrow’s soup was put on the stove to simmer, while Mary Poppins gently taught the Banks men about bouquet garni herbs. 

The dirty dishes had been piled in the sink. The suds were fluffier and springier than normal, Jane thought. Mary Poppins rolled up her sleeves. “You all go eat, I’ll finish washing up.” 

Mr. Banks wiped his hands on his trousers, and then looked mildly shocked at himself. “Thank you,” he said gruffly. “I don’t know what we would have done without you.”  
Mary Poppins waved him off, and smiled slightly as Michael bounded past with the tray of flat bread, making galloping sounds. 

Jane hesitated in the doorway, glancing around the kitchen. On the stove, the pot was bubbling. Mary Poppins was scrubbing dishes vigorously at the sink, no magic in evidence, just a coarse brush. There was a bubble of emotion under her ribcage but she couldn’t find words for and Mary Poppins never liked talking when there wasn’t anything to say. Jane turned toward the bright dining room and went to supper with her family. 

Night fell on London.  
~

In front of Saint Paul’s cathedral, a young man in a clean uniform paused at the foot of the steps, which were swarming with the chuckling, cooing, bobbing bodies of the London pigeons. He had a chunk of bread in his hand, and there were crumbs on his cuff. The other sleeve of his uniform was empty and pinned against his jacket. He considered himself one of the lucky ones. 

Chewing thoughtfully, he watched the birds hop and peck on the stone steps. He had grown up in Yorkshire, hadn’t come to London until the war, but it reminded him of something a nanny had once told him, when he was a child with an active imagination. 

When he sat down on the steps, the pigeons crowded around him eagerly, cooing and shuffling. The stone was chill and hard, but dry, worn smooth by many feet. He would just sit a while and rest. Absently, he began shredding his chunk of bread, scattering the crumbs to the birds.  
~

Not far away, in a shabby apartment in Cheapside, Bert handed a cup of tea to his mother and leaned over to kiss her cheek. Her skin was like warm paper. “Thank you love,” she sighed, sipping and setting down the mug with a clink in the saucer. “Just how I like it, dear, you always remember.” It was impossible to know which of her men she thought she was talking to, but, Bert thought as he propped his feet up on a stool and listened to her knitting needles clack, sometimes it didn’t really matter.  
~

In a white house on Cherry Tree Lane, the downstairs windows were blazing and inside someone laughed. All along the street, the trees were blooming, gauzy white ghosts in the dark. 

Mary Poppins closed the door softly behind her and trotted down the front steps. She hefted her carpet bag in one hand and her umbrella in the other. 

Children grew, families and wars came and went, but the soft night wind blowing through the cherry blossoms would go on blowing, through poppy fields and deserts and distant mountains. Mary Poppins turned her face into it, and let the wind take her someplace new.

**Author's Note:**

> How is my Mary Poppins voice? Feedback is love.  
> Also, does Mary Poppins strike anyone else as an incredibly tragic character? She is always alone, or among strangers, but she has an incredible ability to give and give from her heart, even though she knows she will be leaving again.


End file.
